


and they burn like starlight

by kingblake



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Grounder Bellamy Blake, Grounder Culture, Grounder Festival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 02:29:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10957788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: “So what’s this all about?” She asks, and he feels his cheeks heat against his own will. He pulls a section of her hair over, examining the honey-gold strands before folding it underneath his pinky.“I’d rather not tell you until we get there.” He says roughly, and she frowns at him in the mirror. He shrugs, and she sticks her tongue out at him.- or -Bellamy Blake, a Trikru warrior, takes Clarke Griffin, a Skaikru healer, to a festival.





	and they burn like starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwanheda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwanheda/gifts).



> thanks for putting up with me again tbh! i had a lot of fun writing and planning this and i hope you enjoy it as much as i do!!

There's never been a time when Bellamy hasn't cherished and respected his clan’s traditions, and before today he's never been particularly  _ embarrassed  _ about his clan’s traditions – but now, standing behind Clarke, he’s not so confident. His fingers are tangled in her hair, pulling different sections into elaborate braids, and she’s sitting patiently, her nimble frame encased in a thick robe of roughspun fabric. 

“So what’s this all about?” She asks, and he feels his cheeks heat against his own will. He pulls a section of her hair over, examining the honey-gold strands before folding it underneath his pinky. 

“I’d rather not tell you until we get there.” He says roughly, and she frowns at him in the mirror. He shrugs, and she sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Let’s compromise, then.” She crosses her arms over her chest as he pulls another piece of hair into her braid, tugging it gently to ensure its security. “We get  _ ready _ for this mysterious ceremony, and when we’re  _ done, _ you tell me what it’s about.” She lifts a brow at him, and he feels the familiar tug of admiration in his heart. She’s always been so headstrong, even in the face of danger. 

“Fine,” he says. He gives her hair another tug. “But you can’t make fun of me when we get there.” He thinks about the annual festival, the one he’d attended as a spectator for most of his life. Now he's a  _ part _ of it, and Clarke is his partner, which made the whole thing all that more daunting. 

He pulls the last section of her hair into the end of the braid and winds it up, using a small iron hairpin to hold it in place. He’d twisted her hair into a knot of intricate braids, then pinned it at the back to create a sort of updo. The hairstyle is traditional, but stylish all the same. Functional, too. 

Bellamy’s own hair is pleated in loose braids down the length of his head, parted messily down the middle. Curls of hair protrude from the braids around his temples and ears, and the ends of the braids are pinned into place at the top of his neck, just where his hair curls the most. It's customary for everyone in participation to keep their hair in braids, if they have enough hair to do so. Many Trikru warriors, unlike Azgedan warriors, keep their hair cropped. It's too easy for someone to grab hold of longer hair in a fight.

Bellamy fights the urge to pull his hands through his hair and helps Clarke out of the rickety chair she’s seated in. His hut is small, but cozy, littered with ancient, yellowing books and lit by an easy fire in the hearth in the corner. Midday sunlight streams through his windows, and leaves from the trees outside cast dappled shadows on his rough wooden floor. Clarke treads across the floor to his meager wardrobe, and sifts through the clothes inside. 

He doesn’t have much, not for himself, anyway, but since they’d become a couple, some of her clothes had made their way into his home, almost unannounced. It’s often that he’ll pull back his bedsheets after a long day and find one of her socks crumpled at the base of his bed, or a shirt thrown over the back of his chair, or a pair of shorts hung across his windowsill to dry after a wash. 

She bends over, and his heart leaps into his throat as her roughspun robes rise up her legs. He averts his eyes momentarily, wondering dumbly why he’s nervous (it’s not like he hasn’t seen her  _ naked _ before), but her voice shakes him out of his own head. She’s turned towards him, holding up a piece of fabric for him to see. “This is what I’m supposed to wear, right?” She holds it out towards him, and he takes it gingerly in his fingers. 

The fabric is pale, only half a shade darker than her own skin, and shaped almost like a tank-top. It’s a meshy fabric, and when he pulls it, it doesn’t give. It doesn’t stretch. There are ties and clasps near the back, sealing it shut, and Bellamy finally nods. “Yes.” He says. “That, and the matching shorts.” He reaches past her and plucks a pair of tight-fitting black shorts off a shelf. She takes the shorts from him, examining them for a moment before turning around, stepping out of the line of the window, and dropping her robe to the floor.

Bellamy flushes fiery red and turns his back while she changes, for once grateful that the ceremony doesn’t require any special clothing for the men of the clan. All he has to do is shuck his shirt and coat off when he gets there. She taps him on the shoulder when she’s finished changing. “Help me with the clasps?” She asks him, and he turns, keeping his eyes on the space between her shoulders as he cinches the top up. She sucks in a tight breath. “Whoa.” She says. “All the women have to wear these?” She asks, and Bellamy nods, shrugging. 

Clarke turns sideways and Bellamy can see that the top has flattened her chest, making it look almost boyish. She looks down, picking at the fabric, then turns and slips into her boots, the worn leather easily molding to her legs. The festival is only a five minute’s walk from the hut, but it’s through the wooded forest and both of them have been down here long enough to know that walking barefoot in the forest, irradiated or not, is not a good idea. 

The festival is scheduled to start at nightfall, for added effect, but Clarke has stated she wants to visit Octavia and Lincoln and set off together. She’s one of the only sky people in attendance, and Bellamy’s managed to convince Octavia and Lincoln not to spoil the surprise, but he’s not quite sure he trusts them to keep quiet.

Clarke eyes him momentarily, then throws her jacket on over the tight-fitting top and pries the front door of his hut open with eager fingers. Just across the clearing is Lincoln’s hut, which looks strangely more put-together and well-kept than Bellamy’s own. Octavia emerges from the doorway, dressed similarly to Clarke, with a black top and matching shorts. She crosses to Clarke swiftly, engulfing her in a short, fierce hug, then smiles at Bellamy, waving her hand. Her hair is braided into a mohawk down the center of her head, obviously Lincoln’s clean handiwork. Clarke’s braids are a little more messy, a little more loose. 

Lincoln emerges from the hut across the way and smiles at Bellamy as he does so, jogging to meet him. Bellamy claps Lincoln on the shoulder and they watch the two women chatter about festivals, and Bellamy prays that Octavia hasn’t spoiled the secret yet. Lincoln sighs. 

“You ready?” Lincoln asks, and Bellamy remembers with startling clarity that this is  _ Lincoln’s  _ first festival, too. Lincoln is staring at Octavia fondly, and Bellamy feels a swell of pride in his chest. He nods slowly, squeezing Lincoln’s shoulder. 

Lincoln’s hair is too short to braid, but it’s shaved into a mohawk to match Octavia’s. His chest is bare under his jacket, similar to Bellamy’s own. Bellamy can see the spires of black ink that cover Lincoln’s collarbones, curving across his ribs. Bellamy hadn’t bothered to cover his own tattoos, a multitude of swirling patterns that encircled his chest and back in thorns and flames. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Bellamy finally says, offering Lincoln a thin smile before rejoining Clarke.

“Are you going to tell me now?” She asks, blue eyes glinting with mischief. Bellamy frowns. 

“What?”

“You didn’t forget our compromise, did you? You said we’d get ready and then you’d tell me what the festival was about.” She cocks her hip, her hand settling on the sliver of skin between the tight shorts and the base of her jacket. He can’t argue with that stance, so he casts a glance at Octavia, who’s smiling like an idiot.

“You’ve got to tell her, Bell.” Octavia flashes her teeth at him, some strange mixture of a snarl and a smile. Lincoln nods in agreement.

Bellamy feels his cheeks heat again. Funny, he thinks, how he never blushed before he met Clarke. Never. 

Once again, he fights the urge to ruin his hair by pushing his fingers through it. Quietly, he sputters out, “It’s a fertility festival.”

Clarke takes a step backwards. “What?” She asks, baffled. 

“A fertility festival,” he repeats, louder. He can practically feel the redness in his cheeks, but Clarke only looks amused, her arms crossed in front of her flattened chest. 

“It’s annual,” clarifies Octavia, grinning. “Having kids on the ground is hard enough as it is, what with all the radiation.” She shrugs. “So we pray for them. Hold a festival for all the verified couples of the clan, and pray for ripe fruit, if you know what I mean.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Married or not.” She gestures at her own hair, then at Clarke’s. “The braids are supposed to resemble unity. How we’re all woven together in the long run.”

Clarke cuts a glance at Bellamy, and he feels like his face is about to melt away from his body. “You’re the first person I’ve been with when the festival’s rolled around. I wouldn’t have roped you into it if it wasn’t important to me.”

Clarke frowns playfully and rises onto her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I can’t believe you thought I would have been embarrassed about something like this.” She adjusts his jacket with her hands, patting him gently on the chest. “This is important to you, so  _ of course _ I’d join you.”

Bellamy feels a strange swell of pride form in his chest, and he offers her a small smile in return. Despite everything, all the barriers that come from her being Skaikru, she still manages to respect the grounder culture. She tugs at the bottom of her top. “What’s the symbolism behind this?” She asks.

Octavia laughs. “That’s purely fashion.” She picks at the fabric of her black top. “Uncomfortable, but it’s what Trikru women have always worn.” 

Clarke slips her hand into Bellamy’s own, casting her gaze towards the sky. “It’s almost nighttime. We should get going.” Octavia nods, agreeing. Lincoln starts towards an opening in the treeline, and the three of them follow his retreating form. There are pounding drumbeats in the distance, punctuated with the alluring voice of wooden pipes and harps. 

They reach the festival quickly. Trikru, one of the largest clans, makes up the vast expanse of woodland that battles and wars have been waged over. Naturally, there are hundreds of people in attendance of the festival. More than half of the women in attendance are dressed in some variation of Clarke and Octavia’s outfits, and almost everyone has their hair intricately braided into knots, loose pleats, and mohawks similar to Octavia’s own. 

Bellamy takes Clarke’s hand, leading her towards a large tent that’s been erected in the corner of the clearing that the festival is being held in. He bends to speak in her ear, trying to be heard over the mingled shouts of Trigedasleng and drumbeats. “It’s called Wythlondeb.”  She glances up at him, smiling fiercely.

“What now?” She asks. In response, Bellamy hooks his arm through her own and leads her into the tent, shoving a flap of canvas away with his shoulder.

“This is going to be your favorite part, I bet,” he says, and she glances up at him, wary. He allows himself a smile. “Really.” Searching for some semblance of confidence within himself, he ushers her over to a table crowded with pots of paint and dye and wide, soft paintbrushes. The tent is full of men and women, each lost in their own rituals. They chatter quietly to one another, and as Bellamy seats himself at the table, he shrugs his jacket off. “Jacket off,” he says to her, and she obeys. He sees the spark of recognition in her eyes, and then she hungrily eyes the pots of paint across from her. 

“It’s custom,” he begins, “For those being recognized to set themselves apart with paint.” He dips his finger into a pot of dark blue and draws a straight line between her eyebrows and down her nose, smiling. “But we have to paint each other. Which gives me full permission to do whatever I want.” Clarke frowns at him, but good-naturedly. 

“Alright, Prince Charming. Do your worst.”

And so he does. He falls silent as he coats her back, arms, legs, and bare stomach in looping swirls of dark blue and white and purple paint. It loosely resembles the tattoos that grace his own body, inked in permanent black. He’s adorned her face with it as well, smearing blue under her eyes and framing her temples with spikes of purple.  When he’s finished, she stands, tracks to the mirror, and after a minute or so of her staring at herself he frowns. “Is it bad?” He asks.

“No,” she says, and Bellamy is startled by her voice – it’s wobbly, like she’s about to cry. “I love it.” She brushes her fingers gingerly across her cheekbones, where he’s painted tiny white flowers. She looks at him with watery blue eyes, so full of love and admiration, and his heart nearly stops in his chest. He’d give anything for her to look at him like that again.  _ Anything _ .

But he clears his throat, shakes his head, and stands in her place, dropping his jacket at his side. “Your turn.” She shifts into artist mode, that familiar crease forming between her eyebrows. She smooths her palms over the scarred plane of his back, her breath ghosting across his skin as she considers her options.

He shivers almost involuntarily as the cold paint touches his shoulder. “So how many times have you been to this festival?” She asks. Conversational. He almost laughs. 

“Plenty of times. This is just the first time I've had a partner to go with.”

She leans around him, paintbrush poised like a dagger in her hand. “You're telling me you've never had a partner before me?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “No. I've had other partners. They've just never stuck around long enough to go to the festival with me.” She paints a long stripe down his bicep in a pale pink shade, and he stares at it curiously until she gently turns his head back forwards, keeping her fingers well away from his carefully pinned braids. 

The paintbrush is cold when it connects with the back of his neck, and this time he shivers for real. “Funny.” She says, but her voice isn't jealous, just curious. The paintbrush trails down his spine in a long, sweeping gesture. 

After a moment of silence, the paintbrush moves farther down his back. He jerks his hips forwards, hissing against the coldness of the paint. She frowns and wraps her hands around his waist, tugging him back towards her. “I’m not done,” she whines. “Cut me some slack. I've never painted on a person before.”

Bellamy grins. “You'd better get used to it, then, icy hands.” She pinches his hip and he yelps, startling a woman just across from them who's busy painting her husband’s upper arm. He smiles sheepishly at her, and she just shakes her head knowingly.

Clarke rises from her position at his back and grabs a vat of light pink paint, hooking it under her arm and carrying it around to Bellamy’s front. She examines his chest, eyes narrowed, then dips her paintbrush into the paint and gets to work again, the tip of her tongue emerging from between her lips as she delves into a world of concentration. 

She paints looping designs across his front to match her own, swirls of pale flowers and thorns and curves that accentuate his ribs. The paint is cold, granted, but any discomfort Bellamy might have felt as a result is squashed by utter admiration, because he's watching the deftness with which she wields the paintbrush, like it's an extension of her own arm.

He hasn't even realized she's finished painting him until she takes his shoulder and heaves him towards the mirror to examine himself. She cocks a hip, careful not to smudge her own paint, and grins at him as he takes in the lines of pale pink paint that make his skin look as if it's glowing. He smiles.

She's outlined his exposed ears with the same pink, curving spikes of paint across his cheekbones and out from his temples, just under a few loose curls. He looks deadly and sharp and vulnerable at the same time, what with the looping swirls encircling his chest and back. Extending his arms, Bellamy can see that she followed her pattern all around his arms, sending thorns that around his biceps and wrap tightly around his wrists. 

He turns to look at her, fiercely proud. “Nice,” is all he can manage, but she smiles widely, and he knows it's sufficient. She grabs his hand and scoops up their jackets, leading him out of the painting tent and into the loose crowd of grounders, men and women, painted and unpainted, chatting idly and laughing softly. The drums echo quietly, a soothing cadence, and dancers move smoothly across the large ceremonial stage, shaking their painted hips and reaching towards the darkening sky, as if beckoning the stars to them.

A few meters away, Octavia and Lincoln emerge from a similar tent. Lincoln is covered in pale green paint, his chest and back decorated with spikes and lines that outline his ribs. Octavia’s sharp designs are similar, a deep shade of orange that brings out the easy grace with which she moves. She pulls Lincoln towards Bellamy and Clarke, a grin smeared across her face. She looks like she's wearing war paint, her eyes cocooned in orange. “You look beautiful, Clarke!” She says, and the two girls launch into a compliment war, each one admiring the other. 

Bellamy grins at Lincoln. “Just wait until the moonlight ceremony,” he says in Trigedasleng, and Lincoln laughs.

“I won't be surprised if they out-squeal the entire clearing.” 

Bellamy smiles and shakes his head. “I might have to go into hiding.”

Lincoln pats Bellamy on his shoulder, careful to avoid the pink paint. “If you love her enough, you shouldn't have to.” His eyes are warm, kind. Bellamy smiles. 

“That's very true,” he agrees. “How are things with Octavia?” Lincoln crosses his arms over his bare chest, careful not to disturb his green paint. 

“She's wonderful,” he says fondly. “You did a good job, Bellamy. Not just as a guardian, but as a brother.” Lincoln tilts his head. “She's an amazing woman.” Bellamy flushes underneath his paint. 

“It's just strange,” Bellamy says. “I practically raised her, and now she's off being a woman.” Lincoln smiles.

“That's probably a good thing. If it wasn't weird, I'd be worried.” Lincoln laughs and casts a glance at Clarke, who's engulfed herself in conversation with a young grounder woman Bellamy recognizes as Indra’s daughter, Gaia. Gaia is in the traditional garb, the tight top and shorts, but she’s not decorated in paint. Nonetheless, she smiles brightly as Clarke and Octavia pull her into their conversation, talking animatedly with their hands.

“And how's Clarke?” He asks, nodding towards the paint-covered blonde. “She dealing with the lifestyle change okay?” 

Bellamy watches her draw in the air with her fingertips. “She's fine, I guess. She's a sky person, and she always will be. But she's always open-minded about everything. Always tries to make everyone happy.” He looks at Lincoln coolly. “She still lives in Arkadia, but she visits me as often as she can. It's not like I can move in with her.” He laughs bitterly. “They'd probably just turn me into another sold-”

He's stopped when Clarke grabs his arm. Her grin is blinding, sending his heart fluttering to his feet. He smiles back at her as she pulls him into the crowd, dancing wildly. She throws her hands up, shakes her hips, bubbles with laughter as she and Octavia steal the attention away from the dancers on the stage. Soon grounders everywhere are dancing, laughing, happiness wheeling through the clearing like a well-thrown spear. For once, the war is forgotten. For once, they laugh together as Bellamy shimmies his hips.

And then the clearing is quiet. The music dies, the crowd stills, and people fall into a hush as Indra, dressed in flowing brown roughspun, makes her way onto the main ceremonial stage. She speaks, her voice booming across the clearing. She's not shouting, not hardly. The clearing is so quiet in her presence, however, that everyone can hear, despite their position. 

“Welcome to Wythlondeb!” She says in smooth Trigedasleng, throwing her arms out to her sides. For once, her mouth tips into a smile, strange and foreign on her face. Bellamy glances at Clarke, flushed and wide-eyed, to make sure she can understand. She nods at him, slowly, to confirm his question. “Tonight is a night of prayer and blessings. We invite all of our Painted to remain standing. Those who are Clean may kneel on the ground.” 

Slowly, the crowd around them bends into squats. Many men and women remain standing, marked by the intricate designs on their skin and the pleats in their hair. Indra smiles. “Painted,” she says. “We offer our prayers and blessings to your.” She catches Bellamy’s eye over the heads of the crowd, and he swears she winks at him. It's dark, though. It might just be a trick of the light.

“May they bring us strong children and endless prosperity. Painted, if you will join with your partners.” Men and women shift through the crowd. Clarke makes her way back to Bellamy, and Octavia drifts to Lincoln. A young couple stands just feet in front of them, a young Trikru woman and her Skaikru girlfriend. 

Indra lifts her arms. “Torches,” she says, and then men around the edge of the clearing lift massive rods. The rods are garnished with wide metal pieces on the end, and when they're placed over the braziers, the flames wink out, one by one.

And then the clearing is dark. Lit only by starlight, the Painted stand and watch in wonder as the sky twinkles above them. And then a gasp shudders up from the far end of the clearing. Bellamy grins, watching Clarke. This is his favorite part.

One by one, the Painted begin to  _ glow _ . Those with paint on their bodies watch in wonder as the swirls and designs and prints across their skin begin to light up, glowing brightly. They've become beacons under the starlight, bright and glowing. Clarke turns towards Bellamy just as her paint begins to light up, and soon she's engulfed in angelic blue light, purple bleeding off her shoulders and fading into a blinding white at her cheekbones. 

She gasps as Bellamy’s own paint begins to glow, pale pink becoming blinding periwinkle under the illuminated sky. Soon the two of them are covered in beautiful designs, glowing, cheekbones and ears and temples accentuated with soft, ethereal glows.

Clarke reaches up and brushes her thumb over the pink on his cheekbones. “This is so cool,” she says, and Bellamy almost laughs.

“You wouldn't say that if you knew the secret.”

Clarke frowns at him. “What?” She asks. She's silenced though, because Indra speaks again.

“Painted,” she says. “You have found each other and have therefore found what has been written in the stars. As such, the stars have chosen you and your bodies to gift your people with blessings and eternal life.” She lifts her arms high above her head. “Now, be blessed. May the stars grant you safe passage into your next steps of life.”

Her arms fall, and the clearing erupts into cheers. Octavia shrieks happily and leaps towards Lincoln, who pulls her in for a kiss. Bellamy smiles and turns towards Clarke, who's still busy admiring the glowing paint.

“Seriously,” he says. “You're gonna hate this once you figure out what it is.”

Clarke frowns at him. “Try me.”

He shrugs, smiles mischievously. Then he leans closer to her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Glow-worms.” He says. He steps back.

She still looks confused.

He laughs. “The paint is made with dye and crushed glow-worms. They react to starlight.” 

Clarke’s eyes go wide and her mouth pulls down with distaste. “That’s nasty.” She pauses. “But awesome.” Bellamy laughs as the music, a woman singing in Trigedasleng backed by drumbeats, swells to a crescendo. 

He pulls her towards him, hands careful around her painted shoulders. He tugs her forwards, using his fingertip to tilt her chin back.

“That's why I love you, Clarke.” And then, he freezes. That's the first time he's ever told her that, raw and unabashed. 

And then she smiles. Blinding, big, her eyes watery and mouth wobbly.

“I love you too, Bellamy,” is all she says with a shaky laugh, before rising onto her toes. Her mouth connects with his and his brain melts inside his skull. He lets out a happy laugh against her lips and she smiles into him, fingers tightening around his hips.

She pulls away when he tries to cup her face with his hand. 

“Stop it,” she says with a playful frown. “You're going to smear the paint.”

Bellamy eyes her with a grin. “When we get home, I think I'm going to do a lot more than smear the paint.” 

And then she breaks into a fit of giggles, her blush visible even in the darkness. 

And  _ god _ , Bellamy thinks as he pulls her in for another kiss. 

With her, he can afford to forget. 

With her, he can _live_.

**Author's Note:**

> what did u think?? did i do okay? and how about that ending? ;) anyway thanks for reading!! feel free to leave comments and tell me things i could do better bc im really not used to writing in this tense?? drop some kudos if u want!! and catch me on twitter @kaszbrekker!


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